A Zeal for Convict Justice
I had come into prison haunted by a
sense of isolation and alienation, and now I found a real community with the
bonds that come from a shared life and friendship. And I wasn’t the only one. A convict friend who was nicknamed “Bull” because of his
stubbornness and simplicity, was released from prison and then complained to us
on the phone that he wanted back in, that he missed his friends and solid
cons. We just shook our heads at
that. The fact that I found my
place in a perilous environment also laid to rest, once and for all, my
childhood legacy of living in fear and uncertainty. I didn’t need to prove my toughness anymore; there wouldn’t
be any more random fights with strangers or self-inflicted knife burns. That was all in the past. For if I could make it in prison, then
I could make it anywhere. Living
under the convict code had also restored—however flawed—my moral sense: the
fact that people and their possessions were owed a certain amount of respect
and care. Though I had enormous blind spots, I actually became a partisan for
justice, an enthusiast for the convict code, and I burned when some inmate
would cause an injustice. When I
first got to prison, whenever I heard the sounds of a fistfight I would eagerly
race to the scene to watch. But
after six months of that I became disillusioned and would just hang my head at
the sound of a fight, since a fight meant that someone had violated the
code—had been selfish and disrespectful—and now a friend might be going to the
“hole”. Though convict justice is not a Christian ethic, the code did a remarkable job of achieving relative
peace amongst a society comprised of robbers and murderers. Moreover, the very
harshness of the code was familiar and resonated with hard men who largely came
from homes without mercy or gentleness.
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Inmates working out in "the yard" |
A Life in Books
My secure place in convict society
gave me the peace to try to sort out who I was and find my place in the
world. I thought that by reading
books that were considered wise or meaningful, I could clear away my confusion
and set my life on a clear path.
And so while I was fully immersed in convict society and the ideals of
the convict code, I also led a second life, a quiet life absorbed in books in a
search for truth and meaning that transcended my circumstances. This double life sometimes created an
inner tension, and since I wasn’t willing to give up my status as a solid con,
whenever there was a real dilemma I always gave the nod to the convict
life.
As soon as the fog cleared after my
arrest, I began my self-rehabilitation by picking up a Bible.
I thought it best to give God—if He
even existed—the first shot at my redemption, and so I began by revisiting my
Catholic roots.
I attended a
Catholic communion service and read the Gospels day and night.
I was really taken by the Gospels—the
words seemed to zip off the page as though they were gently charged with electricity.
There was only one problem.
I understood that the Gospels were
calling me to a life of simplicity, patience and mercy—a radical offering of
the self—but I had already vowed that I would never be at the mercy of any one
again.
This created a visible
tension within me, and as I would walk around the prison meditating over the
sweet words of Jesus, my fists would pulse and clench, ready to pound the first
person that disrespected me.
Believing in the Gospels made me feel vulnerable and now something had
to give.
At last I decided to walk
away from Jesus, and not because I was convinced the Gospels were untrue, but
because I thought, ‘Who can follow this?’
As time wore on, I would occasionally drop by for a Sunday service to
see if that same electricity was there, but the service seemed bland.
Moreover, other than some solid
Chicanos or Hispanics, most of the participants were sex offenders or other
“weak” inmates that I usually avoided.
Only a handful of the solid cons attended the various Christian
services, and it was understood that their faith was to be kept strictly
private.
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Judas walks away from the Last Supper |
Once I walked away from grace, I
quickly found the path that I desired.
I found a way to build myself up by relying on my own strength and
talents, and not some unseen God.
At first I studied for my GED, and was pleasantly surprised when the
lady who administered the test told me that I’d achieved the highest score the
college had ever seen. I then
began to read widely: new age, Eastern religions, classics of literature and
philosophy. I quickly realized
that new age classics like “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” and “The Teachings of
Don Juan” were ultimately shallow and didn’t offer a coherent worldview. On the other hand, the popularized
versions of Eastern religions were too esoteric, and I needed something
concrete and practical since nothing brings a person back down to earth like
living in prison. I soon settled
into a long romance with the largely secular classics of Western Civilization,
and this romance would last fifteen years or up until the day of my conversion
experience. I eagerly examined
these books for answers to all the big questions: the nature of human life, the
way to happiness, the life of virtue and integrity and so on. And so I devoured Voltaire, Rousseau,
and tried to understand Hobbes; I read Tolstoy, James Joyce and Camus. These authors were my daily companions
as I spent long hours in my cell taking notes and offering written commentary. Eventually I came to memorize over one
hundred poems—some of them lengthy like T. S. Eliot’s “Love Song of J. Alfred
Prufrock”. I thought of these
efforts as laying the foundation stone for after my release; when I would set
aside the solid con and build a life around college studies.
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A clever depiction of a line from the "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" |
I had to scramble to find good
books in prison, and so in order to help build the prison library, I wrote to
various institutions and think tanks asking for free books. My efforts were mostly wasted, but a
kind gentleman by the name of George Weigel at the Ethics and Public Policy
Center sent me an encouraging letter and an offer of a few books. I didn’t know who he was at the time or
that he would soon become Pope John Paul’s best-known biographer, but it meant
a great deal to me because it freed me from a sense of intellectual isolation
and gave me a sense of connection to a wider body of scholars. When I bumped into Mr. Weigel many
years later, he recalled the letter and was amazed that our paths had crossed
once again.
Unfortunately the delicate balance
between the life of a con and the life of the mind began to crack when I was
told that I would be transferred to a minimum-security work camp. For most inmates this would have been
excellent news, but I was determined not to go. Like my friend “Bull”, I wanted to stay with my solid cons,
and I was ashamed to skip off when some of my friends had a life sentence. Moreover, I knew that work camps were
not governed by the convict code, but were more like a boarding school for unfocused,
immature adults where sex offenders and snitches freely mingled with everyone
else. Since I had come of age in
prison, had became a man with a sense of my self and my place in the
world—however flawed—I didn’t want to lose that in a “Boy’s Town”, and so I
decided to foil the transfer by publicly beating a child molester. At dinner the next day I solemnly broke
the news and told my friends of my decision. Two of the most influential convicts briefly glanced around
the table and spoke on behalf of all the solid cons. “King”, a nickname that was both his real name--Robert Haden King jr.--and indicated
his influence in convict society, spoke first. He looked like a pasty businessman with his Polo shirts and
Vaurnet sunglasses, but he was a captain for an Atlanta crime
syndicate who was convicted of arranging contract killings on the West Coast. The syndicate
lawyers continued to flood the courts with his appeals, and he was hopeful of his imminent release. King simply said, “No. No. You don’t want this life…you don’t want to be like us. Go to the work camp.” Danny Tash, a high-level cocaine and meth distributor
who killed an associate for being dishonest, finalized the decision,
“King’s right. Look around…you
don’t want this.” And that was
it. They made the decision for me
and I knew I couldn’t challenge their judgment. I didn’t understand the decision at first. Why did they so easily say goodbye to a
friend, a dependable con, and some ready “muscle”? Then it hit me: because they really were my friends, and
against their own interests they acted in real love. Please say a prayer for them.
Life after Prison
My two-year stay in the
minimum-security work camp prepared me for a relatively seamless transition
back to “civilian life” when I was released in 1995. The State of Washington exempted me from any probation or
oversight since I was headed back to Oregon, but they ordered me to make
financial restitution and kindly asked that I stay out of their state. Although I was still rough around the
edges, people sensed that they should give me a wide berth, and so I was able
to avoid bar-fights and other mischief.
I was still only twenty-one, and so I left prison full of hope and
determination. I dreamed of a
career as a professor or a fellow at a think tank, and this seemed possible as
I had finally achieved a certain self-mastery and discipline with the help of
long hours of daily study. I began
work as a waiter and bartender, and enrolled full-time at Portland Community
College. After two years of
perfect grades and a perfect score on the verbal section of the SAT, I was
accepted into Reed College, a small, local liberal arts college. It is best-known as the college that
Steve Jobs dropped out of to found Apple Computer, but it also offered an elite
program in the very books that I had come to love, and was known as a
breeding-ground for future professors.
Once again I was surprised by my success there, but this was owed more
to my maturity and level of focus than exceptional brainpower. Finally, after my graduation and a
surprising year spent working for a non-profit in the re-development of closed
Catholic parishes, I was accepted into some doctoral programs in political
science, and chose the University of Michigan.
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University of Michigan was a far cry from prison |
At this point it would be thought
that I was at the zenith of my life as I had marched up the echelons of higher
academia, but just as I achieved my greatest success, my sense of drive and
optimism began to falter. The problem was that while my life after prison
looked great on paper—and one free-lance writer actually tried to pitch it to
Reader’s Digest—in my moral life I had practiced one betrayal after
another.
Now instead of believing
in my future and the story of an ex-con made good, I had come to the point
where I could barely look at myself in the mirror.
All of my earnest attempts to re-build myself in prison had
slowly been undone in the eight years after my release.
I know it’s a startling claim, but I
was actually a better person when I first got out of prison than when I left
Portland to pursue my Ph.D.
How
could that be?
At my release, I
had a sincere inquiry into virtue and the pursuit of truth for the sake of the
common good, but this slowly died as I became progressively narcissistic and
closed in upon myself.
The
solidarity and concern for the other inspired by convict society had faded and
I had few friendships outside of whomever I happened to be dating.
Like many young men of today, I
single-mindedly pursued exhilaration and intense pleasures wherever I could
find them: some were honorable pursuits like mountain hiking, lifting weights
and rugby, but others were dishonorable ones like spending all night dancing
shirtless in music clubs, and dating an endless string of women.
In either case the point was to
maximize the pleasures that could be extracted from my mind and body or those
of others, and these resources were finally running dry.
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Hiking alone with my dogs |
Things finally fell apart shortly
after I arrived at the University of Michigan. One by one I became disillusioned with all the ideals and
all the goods that I had strived after in order to give my life hope and
meaning. With the end of yet
another long-term relationship, I finally knew that a woman’s beauty, charm,
intellect, care and comfort—as well as having children someday—could not give
me peace and joy if I didn’t have some of those qualities first. I also came to lose hope in the
prospect of a fulfilling career and the joys of the life of the mind. My field of political and moral
philosophy was hopelessly splintered, and even though we were all secular
humanists, there was very little consensus on the worth and relevance of
particular philosophers and their programs. I had longed for a community of scholars, but we barely
spoke the same “language” or held the same values, and so we weren’t in a real
conversation. It was as if a new
Tower of Babel had replaced the Ivory Tower, and everyone was talking past each
other. Finally, the last ideal
that failed was my health—my sense of vigor and strength. At first I was stalked by endless
stomach maladies, and then a depression as black as hell descended upon
me. For a year and a half I endured
a nearly complete desolation and despair, and all I could do was hold on by my
fingernails and try to make it through the night. Whenever I reflect on that time, I’m still amazed that I
held on.
While many find God at their very
bottom, God did not reveal Himself to me at that time.
I did visit confession once when I was
at my most hopeless, and the gentle old priest in his eighties practically
jumped out of the confessional when I told him I was suicidal.
In any event, God has perfect timing,
and perhaps He knew I was too proud and would later question such a conversion
as the last hope of a desperate man.
And perhaps my suffering was necessary as a partial atonement for my
past life.
In any event, the
depression took a lot of the vinegar out of me, and I emerged from my
depression a more kind and patient person.
I would continue to slog through my doctoral studies until
the day of my conversion, but without the passion that I had known while
poring over books in my prison cell.